End piece
Cocktail time
Jeffrey Bernard
There •was a party, this week, at the Westbury Hotel in Mayfair to launch a book about Diana Dors. I don't know whether she wrote it herself or whether it's a biography or a ghosted autobiography, and that just about sums up the party. What I mean is, what the hell are those sort of parties all about? O.K., so I'm talking about it, but do these functions have any utility at all? I presume they must since they cost publishers so much money and we all know that publishers aren't mad, don't we? Incidentally, to prove that point and I still can't get over it, James Michie of The Bodley Head says that if you write you mustn't write about yourself or your friends, but he forgot to say you also shouldn't submit anything to a publisher. Anyway, there was this party and they tell me that nearly all the guests were booksellers and a drearier bunch you couldn't find unless you went to a salesmen's conference in a provincial hotel.
They seem to have stock characters at these dos and the first one I got chatting to was the ubiquitous American girl in publishing. I was helping myself to ghastly sausages from a tray being held by a succulent waitress when the voice next to me asked, 'Tell me, are you in publishing or do you write?' Awful, isn't it? It's the sort of question that, coming from a stranger, makes all your sphincters twitch. I told her I did do a bit and she said, 'Oh my gahd.Don't you feel terribly lucky?' I told her I didn't really and she said that she wished she wrote and that publishing was such a 'mess'. It's terribly difficult to go on from that sort of overture and I always find myself talking more rubbish than usual from thereon in. You go on talking to people like that and it's like feeding a fruit machine that you know damn well isn't going to pay out.
'Oh, I don't know,' I heard myself saying, 'I wish I was in publishing.' You're kidding?"No, I'd much rather be a business man telling people they mustn't write about themselves.' But you have to be kidding.' `No."Well, honestly.' — pause to grab another passing cocktail sausage — 'I mean, if I had any sort of gift for words then my gahd, I mean, you must be really crazy.' At this point I gave her one of those selfeffacing smiles that sometimes give people
who don't know you the horrible hunch that who just might be another Graham Greene or an Evelyn Waugh. 'No,' I said, lying in my teeth and nbt being able to stop. 'In fact, I'd really rather be a bank manager than a journalist or writer.' She shook her head slowly, exaggerating her incredulity. 'Well, I've met some crazy Englishmen since I've been here, but really . . 'Then I knew I'd got the daft lying bit really in my mouth. 'Actually,' I went on, 'I very nearly did go into banking, but 1 had to stay at home and look after my mother. That's how I took up writing.' My gahd, was your mother really ill then?' Oh no, not really. She didn't have any legs.' Oh my gahd. Hey there, Myrtle,' she started waving at someone across the room. 'Come here, there's this really crazy man. Oh my gahd.' I slipped away out of the reception room and in to the bar of the hotel. I'd had enough of publishing and writers and their lot.
Standing at the bar and ordering a drink, a man came up to me and said, 'You're Jeff Bernard, aren't you?' I said yes and he said, 'I wonder if you'd be interested in writing a biography or ghosting an autobiography of Pat Eddery?' Now, in case you don't know, Pat Eddery is the champion jockey and at twenty-three he's a budding Lester Piggott. On top of that, I can't think of many things I'd less like to do than write his biography. The boredom. All those tapes. Anyway, my ears pricked because it's always nice to be asked. 'I mean,' this man went on, 'You could travel around with him in his car to and from the races and you could get it all down on tape, couldn't you?' The idea appalled me so I asked him, 'How much would you pay?' A thousand pounds and a percentage of royalties plus a percentage of the serial rights.' After chatting with him about this frightfully exciting new venture for a few minutes he suddenly stood up and shook hands as though we'd come to some sort of understanding. Just like a bank manager in fact. (There was no cheque from him in today's post). Then I drifted back to the party in the reception room.
By now, Miss Dors had arrived, resplendent in two sequins that were bravely trying to withhold the relentless advance of her bust. While she posed for photographs the American girl got hold of me again. 'Oh, you're here. My gahd, I've been looking for you everywhere. Say, would you be interested in writing a children's book?' It's amazing, isn't it? They never stop coming at you. 'I don't think I could do that,' I told her. 'Really, I can only write about myself.' 'Well, jeepers, couldn't you write a children's book about yourself?' I suppose so,
but it's not a very nice story."Well, you don't have to put that in about your mother not having any legs."No, I suppose not. How much would you pay?"Well, let's see. I guess we could give you a thousand and I'll say one thing for these publishers — they're really brave. They keep coming on and there doesn't seem to be any way of stopping them.
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